In the Eye of the Beholder
by Midna3452
Summary: It's been three months since the Nations escaped the Mansion, and they're still dealing with the scars. England has been re-learning how to get through life anew while being blind. When France comes over for a surprise visit, he poses a question that the Brit never thought he would be asked. Now, England has to make a choice that will change the both of their lives forever.


**A/N: Hello! This fanfic is technically a sequel to a previous one that I wrote, entitled _Emerald Eyes._ However, you don't have to read that one to enjoy this! French translations are provided at the end of the story. Enjoy, and please leave a review letting me know what you think!**

* * *

 **In the Eye of the Beholder**

" _How many fingers… am I holding up?" America questioned slowly, gazing at the Brit intently. England blanched. Fingers? He couldn't even tell that America was holding up a_ _hand_ _…_

" _You can answer, can't you? If you… can see."_

 _England looked at the ground, ashamed; America had figured it out. The British Nation's eyes must have given him away; he had sinking the feeling that their bright emerald color had been dulled by the cloudy grey of blindness._

" _W-well…," England responded, not sure what he was supposed to say at this point. Sensing that America was upset again, the Brit sighed and closed his eyes._

" _It can't… be…," America muttered weakly, sounding utterly defeated. England was alarmed; he had never heard the younger Nation sound so distraught before. It sounded like he was on the verge of crying… It actually_ _scared_ _the Brit. He looked up, hoping that he was staring America straight in the face._

" _I'm sorry, America," England said, fighting back the strong urge to burst into tears._

" _I can… no longer see."_

* * *

 _ **Three Months Later...**_

The sound of the doorbell startled the British Nation awake. He frowned in confusion as he felt around him, knowing that this was certainly _not_ his bed... After a moment, though, he realized that he must have fallen asleep on the couch again. Feeling the comforting texture of one of his hand-knitted pillows, he let out a soft sigh.

Ever since the incident at the Mansion, where he had defeated a monster but lost his sight in the process, England's sleep schedule had become increasingly irregular. Because he wasn't able to see the sunrise or sunset, his body clock had recently lost its rhythm, which therefore left the Brit prone to staying up until ungodly hours of the night, and then not waking up until mid-afternoon or falling asleep in the middle of the day.

 _I suppose I should be grateful that we finally escaped that dreadful Mansion without any casualties_ , England thought to himself as the doorbell chimed again. After going through time loop after time loop, he and Italy were eventually able to solve the mysteries of the Mansion that the Nations had been trapped in for God knows how long. When everyone was finally alive and free, they emerged from the Mansion only minutes after they had entered; it was almost as if none of the horrifying monsters and deaths had ever even happened.

...Almost.

Italy was left with quite a number of scars. A few were physical, but most of them were mental; from what England knew, Italy had been staying within a close proximity of Germany (twenty feet or less, Japan had said), and if they were to be separated, the Italian would start to shake violently and start muttering that something horrible must have happened. Germany was rumored to be in a similar state, though he probably did not show his trauma as much as the sensitive Italian.

While the other European Nations' wounds were overall mental, England's were much more physically obvious. Being a country of magic and mystery himself, it was easy for England to process the concept of different "time loops" and the fact that someone could die in one time loop but be perfectly fine in a different one. As long as England was assured that everyone he cared for was safely out of that Mansion, alive and in one piece, he could push the mental anguish behind him.

However, his sacrifice to defeat one of the terrifying monsters had definitely taken a heavy toll on him over the past few months. To suddenly go from seeing the world in bright, vibrant colors to seeing nothing but absolute darkness was quite a shock for both England's mind and body. He had to re-learn how to do absolutely _everything_ , from tasks as simple as walking in the right direction without running into anything to more complex things like learning how to operate his kitchen appliances without setting his house on fire.

Luckily, he had his Faerie friends to help him; they remained by his side constantly, only disappearing when he was either asleep or in the bathroom. By allowing them to gently guide him around his now unfamiliar house, England was able to become acquainted with the placement of every wall, table, corner, and other such things simply by touch. It pained the Brit deeply that he would never be able to see any of his magical friends or other Nations again, but he knew that this was the price he had to pay for using magic to kill another being, be it a monster or not.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" England called out as the doorbell rang for a third time. Standing up, he shuffled his way around the coffee table in front of him, hands outstretched. Within a few seconds of moving, he felt the familiar presence of one of his Faeries perching atop his right shoulder. Slowly, he walked until he felt the wall, and then felt along it until he came across the door. Grasping the doorknob, he turned it as his Faerie flew to the door and undid the lock.

 _"Bonjour, Angleterre,"_ said an accented voice as the door opened and England felt the cold, Autumn breeze brush across his face. The Brit frowned.

"Oh, France...I didn't expect _you_ to be here..." Though his head was angled towards the Frenchman, his clouded green eyes were staring out into nowhere.

"I came for a visit," France responded, feeling a tug on his heart. His absolute favorite part of the gorgeous Nation in front of him had been England's eyes; as France had described on more than one occasion, _"it was as if you could see the entire universe just by gazing into them."_

Now, however, they only served as a reminder of the horrible event that made all of the Nations realize that they were, to otherworldly forces, merely human.

"Can I...come in?" France asked tentatively when the Brit failed to move.

"Oh! Yes, sorry, sorry," England said, shuffling out of the way. "This is just so unexpected..." Suddenly, a heavenly scent filled his nose, making him turn his head to follow the Frenchman as he entered the house and closed the door behind him. "Did you...bake something?"

"Oh, you noticed?" France smiled and held a basket that had been tucked under his arm up to England's nose. " _Oui_ , I made some macaroons; fresh-baked this morning."

"You didn't have to do that." England crossed his arms in one of his traditionally defiant gestures, but a small smile lit up the corner of his mouth.

 _"Ferme la bouche,"_ the Frenchman responded, lightly nudging the Brit on the arm.

England's smile widened despite his grumpy demeanor. Even though he had not seen France since his release from the hospital, it felt as if almost no time had passed between them. Of course, he hadn't expected the Frenchman to pay him a visit for quite some time; ever since the incident, France had been strangely...distant. The blue-eyed blonde would visit England in the hospital every day, sometimes not leaving his side until the nurses kicked him out. England enjoyed the company, but he could not help but notice that the Frenchman's voice wavered almost every time he spoke, as if he was holding back tears. And then, after the Brit was released from the hospital following the conclusion that nothing else was wrong except for his lack of vision, France just...stopped visiting. He still called every few weeks to check up on him, but the two of them had not physically been in the same room for nearly three months.

England was not quite sure what had brought on this sudden mood change, but he knew it had something to do with his loss of vision. Ironically, just when he _needed_ to look at the Frenchman's facial cues to see what was wrong, he couldn't.

"Has my dear Matthew been of any help to you?" France asked, gently grasping England's elbow and leading him towards the couch. The Brit casually removed his elbow from France's grip but still allowed the Frenchman to lead the way. "He told me that he's been visiting you on occasion."

"Yes, he's been a _great_ help," England responded, nodding. "I'm not quite comfortable going out of my house on my own yet, so he's been going to the store for me. As has Alfred, though not as often." He chuckled and shrugged. "But you know them; Matthew has always been more keen on helping out 'the old man,' as Alfred likes to call me."

"At least you're not as old as _me_!" France laughed. He placed the basket of macaroons on the table and then sat on the couch. Instinctively, he patted the seat next to him, then cringed when he realized that England could not see the gesture. However, England heard the sound of hand meeting cushion and sat down in the exact spot France had pointed out.

"Thank you-oh!" Immediately, he jumped up again. "I forgot to offer you some tea!"

"Ah, _mon amour_ , don't worry!" France tugged on the Brit's shirt, wanting him to sit down again. England shook his head.

"No, no, I always make my guests tea; even if _you_ don't want some, I'm _dying_ for a cup- ah, sorry."

Both of the European Nations flinched at the offhanded comment. England had not meant to say it, for he knew that everyone's wounds from the Mansion were still raw, but it had accidentally slipped out. He felt France's hand brush against the back of his own. He bit his lip and took a step out of the way.

"I'll just go make some tea, then, shall I?" The question was not up for debate; England began walking towards the kitchen, hands outstretched, and France instantly jumped up and followed him.

" _Angleterre_ , I don't want you to burn yourself..." His tone was concerned, and England could mentally picture the expression on the Frenchman's face.

"You _really_ think I've lasted these past three months without a cup of hot tea every day?" he snapped, reaching the wall and beginning to walk along it. He could feel France hovering beside him, probably with his arms positioned behind and in front of his body, ready to grab him should he trip on something and fall over.

It was the exact same way that Matthew and Alfred walked beside him _every_ single time they came over.

"You don't have to do that, you know," England huffed, pausing his travels towards the kitchen. France straightened up.

"I just...don't want you to fall," the Frenchman responded. England turned his dull eyes towards him, and France felt his breath catch in his throat.

"I've walked these halls _thousands_ of times; as long as you haven't put something in my path, then I'll be fine."

"I would _never_ do that!"

"Then I assure you, I'm _not_ going to fall."

England once again began to move. France bit his lip but resisted the overwhelming urge to help the Brit, choosing to shove his hands into his pant pockets as far as they would go.

As he passed the threshold of the kitchen doorway, England felt a tiny pair of hands grasp his pointer finger. They tugged his hand to the right, and he angled the rest of his body accordingly. A few steps more and the Brit had reached the sink. The tiny hands guided him to the kettle resting in the dish drainer, and then helped him fill the kettle with water and take it to the stove.

France watched all of this with avid fascination. Despite not being able to see, England moved around the kitchen as if it were clear as day. Yes, the Brit had been living in that house for centuries, but the Frenchman expected him to at least have _some_ difficulty maneuvering.

"How can you do that so easily...?" France questioned as England placed the kettle on the stove and turned the burner up to _just_ the right amount of heat. The Brit gave him a half-smile.

"My Faeries have been helping me," he responded matter-of-factly. France nodded in understanding; though he still could not see the tiny creatures, after their ordeal in the Mansion France was willing to accept the existence of _any_ supernatural being.

England's smile slipped when he heard no audible response from the Frenchman. "You don't have to believe me, but-"

" _Non,_ I _do_ believe you!" France quickly responded. "I nodded, but I forgot that you couldn't..." He trailed off and gazed into the Brit's blank eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." England waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. As soon as his hand fell back to his side, France grasped it. The touch was warm, gentle, and sent a small shiver up England's spine.

Just then, the tea kettle whistled. It startled both of the Nations and made them jump, and England's pinky finger lightly brushed the side of the hot kettle. He snatched his hand back and sucked in a breath, but a reassuring whisper from his Faerie friend assured him that no serious burn had occurred. Before he could reach for the kettle again, he felt a firm hand push him away from the stove.

"France, I'm fine!" he snapped as the kettle's whistle died down when it was removed from the burner. There was no response from the Frenchman, so England huffed and crossed his arms in front of him, deciding that there was no use in fighting over a burning hot tea kettle. He heard shuffling and felt France's warm body nearly touching his side as he reached up into the cabinet to get out the tea leaves and cups.

The blue-eyed blonde glanced at the Brit, who currently had his lips pursed in an obvious attempt not to yell something mildly obscene. The dull, formerly-emerald eyes were doing their best to follow France's movements, but they were always gazing unseeingly a little off to the side.

France looked away; England had obviously accepted his newfound disability, but the Frenchman still had to get used to it.

"Don't forget to put the tea leaves in a strainer," England commented. France froze, the last few loose tea leaves falling from the downturned spoon his hand. England sighed when the shuffling sounds abruptly stopped. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"I can fix it!" France assured him. Placing the kettle and the spoon down, he lightly grasped the Brit's shoulders and turned him in the direction of the sitting room. "Go and wait for me on the couch; I'll be there in a few minutes."

England scoffed indignantly at being shooed out of his own kitchen, but decided that the best course of action would be to do as France said. Besides, if there was one person he was comfortable leaving in his kitchen by themselves, it was definitely one of the most culinary elite Nations.

The Brit maneuvered his way back to the couch and took a seat once again. Before he knew it, he could feel himself beginning to slip back into the relaxation of sleep...and then, suddenly, a presence was at his side and the sound of a mug being placed on the wooden table in front of him brought him back to the present.

"For you," the smooth, French-accented voice said, lightly taking England's hand and placing his thumb and forefinger on the handle of the teacup. "And yes, I strained the leaves out this time."

"Thank you." England nodded in acknowledgement, hearing the smirk in France's voice. Carefully, he lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip of the pleasantly-hot tea. The pair sat in silence for a little while, drinking. England was, he had to admit, happy to have the elder Nation's presence here, even if it was simply for the fact of human contact other than his two "children." He did notice, however, that France was being uncharacteristically quiet. Still, England did not try to prompt him as to what might have been wrong; he knew the Frenchman would tell him eventually. He always did.

Sure enough, once their cups were just over half empty and the silence was starting to become a bit too overwhelming, France made his move.

Before England realized what was happening, he felt a gentle warmth surround his left hand, as if France had grasped it in-between his own. This sensation was quickly cut by a thin, jarring band of cold that wrapped around his ring finger.

"...What is that?" the Brit questioned, his voice soft. Normally, he would at least tilt his head in the direction of the strange sensation, but he remained stone-faced and forward. France gave a tiny smile.

"You've lost your sight, not your mind, _Angleterre,_ " he replied, tucking a short, blonde lock of hair behind the smaller Nation's ear. "You know what it is."

There was a beat of silence and then, his expression still unchanged, England asked:

"Why?"

France laughed a bit louder. What a ridiculous question! Surely, the answer was obvious.

"Because I-" The Frenchman paused, then lightly caressed the Brit's face. England flinched at the touch, earning a slight frown from his fellow Nation. Still, France continued. " _Je t'aime, Angleterre._ I've told you this time and time again; you should know by now how much I mean it!"

There was another pause. This one, however, seemed to stretch on for hours. With every passing second, the Frenchman grew increasingly concerned.

And then, in an instant, England's whole mood shifted. His eyebrows knotted together in an expression of anger- a rather terrifying sight coupled with his clouded eyes, and he wrenched the ring off of his finger, throwing it into France's lap.

" _I don't need your pity_ ," he hissed, clenching his hands into fists. He turned his head away so that he was looking in the opposite direction from where France was sitting.

Said French Nation was completely taken aback. He had been absolutely, without a doubt certain that England would say "yes" to his unspoken request... so why, then, was the golden ring in his lap and no longer on the Brit's finger?

Maybe England had misunderstood. After all, he no longer had visual clues to work with so maybe the message had gotten "lost in translation," so to speak.

"It's not pity, _mon amour;_ I truly want to spend the rest of my life with you!" France gently tried to put the ring on again, but England snatched his hand away so violently that he almost sent the teacups crashing to the floor.

"You're just like the boys, and everyone else I've talked to," he murmured, fists still gripped tightly and resting on his knees. "Being extra-congenial to me simply because I have a new weakness to add to, according to everyone I've ever met in my life, my 'countless others...' But I'm _not_ weak! I was fine before, and I'm _fine now!"_ He shouted these last two words, his voice full of all the frustration that had been building up over the past three months.

It was frustration from losing his sight, frustration from having to re-learn everything, frustration from knowing that he would no longer be able to watch any of the younger Nations grow up or see the older Nations get even older... But, most of all, it was frustration from everyone suddenly treating him as if he was unable to function on his own. Yes, it had been hard to acquaint himself with his new, vision-less life, but he had done it. However, anyone who was around him never give him the chance to prove it.

France lifted a hand to place it on England's shoulder, which was now shaking as the Brit desperately tried to hold onto what little composure he had left. Almost immediately, though, France lowered his arm; whatever emotions the hot-headed Nation was feeling right now, he needed to get them out, despite how concerned it made the Frenchman to see him do so.

"I'm fine," England muttered again, softer this time. Then, suddenly, he whirled around so that his body was completely facing France and yelled: "How could _you,_ of all people, do something like this to me?!"

"Something like _what, Angleterre?"_ France finally spoke up. By this point, he was beginning to feel legitimately frightened. England was a moody man, yes, but he never acted like _this._

 _"You know bloody well what I'm talking about!"_ The Brit's voice was so loud that the concerned Faeries peering around the corner of the wall flew for cover. England heard their tiny, fluttering wings but chose to ignore them and, instead, tried to hit the Frenchman's arm. "How _dare_ you toy with my emotions like this?! You're only doing this because you feel _sorry_ for me! How dare you?!" His clouded eyes flashed with anger- an emotion that was quickly replaced by a flood of tears. "How dare you..."

England tried once more to push France, but he missed by a few inches and chose to bury his face in his hands instead. His entire body began to shake as the emotions finally overflowed, long tear streaks running down his face and gasping sobs emitting from his mouth.

France let him cry; the Brit obviously needed to, and France feared that if he tried to touch him again he would be slapped across the face, or worse, asked to leave. He could handle the release of pent-up anger in the form of a half-hearted blow to the arm, but there was no way that he could walk out the door and leave his love to drown in his own emotions. So, France let him cry.

Eventually, England calmed down enough to grasp for a tissue from the box sitting on the table in front of him. France silently pushed the box closer to the Brit to ease his reach; thankfully, the man did not notice the helpful gesture.

"...'m sorry," England sniffled, pointedly turning his face away. He blew a bit of mucus into the tissue, then crumpled it in his hand and dropped it randomly in the vicinity of the table. "I didn't mean to... to scream at you like that. It was very undignified, and-"

 _"Angleterre, shh,"_ France said softly, lightly pressing a finger to the Englishman's lips. He smiled softly. "It's alright. I'm... not sure what you're feeling- I couldn't even _begin_ to understand without experiencing it myself, but... I wasn't trying to show you pity when I put that ring on your finger."

Almost imperceptibly, England tilted his head slightly in France's direction, listening intently. His lips were pursed into a tight, thin line, his brow furrowed with indecision. Was the Frenchman _really_ telling the truth? He had no reason at all to lie, but... _everyone_ had been acting differently since the Brit lost his sight- even his magical companions. Why wouldn't France be just like all the others?

The long-haired blonde let out a soft sigh. Obviously, England still struggled to believe him. Gently, he took England's left hand in his own and lightly kissed the barren ring finger. His lips left a warm imprint where there had previously been a harsh cold residue from the gold metal. The Brit's cheeks turned bright red, and France couldn't help but chuckle.

"You're adorable, _mon amour,_ " he laughed. England huffed, but noticeably did _not_ pull his hand away. Instead, he gave the larger hand holding his own a tight squeeze, finally turning his body fully towards France.

"...Do you _really_ mean it?" he asked. A seriousness lurked in his eyes, visible even though the cloudiness. "You didn't decide to do this out of pity? You're... you _truly_ want me to spend the rest of my life with you?"

 _"Oui,"_ France answered without hesitation.

"...It's quite the commitment, you know, being with someone forever." England sat up a little straighter, his cheeks still a dull pink. "Especially for us Nations; forever is...well, it's not necessarily a metaphor, at least for the time being."

"I think I can manage."

England still seemed unsure, so France picked up his hand and pressed it against his cheek, allowing the Brit to feel the huge grin spread across his face.

The green-eyed Nation's breath caught in his throat for a moment. Slowly, he ran his fingers across France's cheeks and then used his whole hand to lightly caress the rest of the Frenchman's face. He was... beautiful. He always had been, of course, but to England, this seemed like a new experience; he could re-discover just how absolutely stunning the man before him was all over again. And the best part? He knew for a fact that this beauty was equivalent inside and out.

"Oh, _mon amour_ , did I upset you again?!" France bit his lip and wiped away a stray tear that fell down the Brit's cheek. England let out a small, involuntary chuckle, and clapped a hand over his mouth. France raised an eyebrow. "Angleterre...?"

England's dull eyes stared straight at the Nation in front of him, his mind recreating the long, blonde hair, soft blue eyes, delicate nose, slightly-stubbled chin, and beautifully kind smile that he had always adored. He truly, truly loved this man, but the distance between them had always kept them apart- literally and figuratively. Just when they got close, it seemed, the universe had other plans and always wrenched them away from each other. Finally, they had been able to somewhat settle down, and then they entered that dreadful mansion... that mansion that stole everyone's dreams for the future and spit them back out in a distorted, uncertain mush of physical and emotional scars.

Thankfully, everyone eventually made it out alive, but the damage was irreparable. England thought that France would never want to be with him again; the Brit had been damaged in more ways than one, and it would take more than a few measly months to fully heal, if he ever did. And yet, there was the Frenchman, sitting right across the couch and undoubtedly still clutching that ring in his hand.

Slowly, England reached down towards France's other hand, grasping gently to find it. Once he discovered that the Frenchman's fist was resting on the couch next to his leg, the Brit placed his palm on top of France's hand and nodded, a huge grin spreading across his face. France blinked.

" _Mon amour_ , you... are you saying 'yes?!'" he questioned. England nodded again and France let out a shout of excitement. Without hesitation, he placed the ring back on the Brit's finger and laced their hands together, his grin rivaling his fellow Nation's.

"I love you, France, you know that," England said, squeezing their hands, his smile slipping into a wry grin. "But I'm also very, very stubborn. It's hard for me to change my viewpoint once I've made up my mind."

"It's in the past, _Angleterre_ ," France reassured him. "You still want to be with me after all this time, and that's all that matters. _Je t'aime!"_

And with that, he wrapped his arms around the Englishman and gave him a tight hug. England laughed and returned the embrace. As his fingers connected behind France's back, he felt the ring on his left hand, no longer a jarring cold sensation but a comforting, warm one. His smile widened.

Despite all their hardships, he and France managed to find each other time and time again. Now, in a sense, they would never be apart, and neither of them could be happier.

After an indiscernible amount of time, the Nations parted, only to rest their foreheads against one another's.

"...The tea is probably cold," England murmured, simply to have something to say. France smirked.

"I'll make a new pot," he answered, lightly kissing the Brit's forehead and causing him to blush scarlet once again. France stood up, but England tugged on his hand before he could walk away.

"Let me." His expression, though still adorably excited, contained a bit of hesitance. This was a final test, and France knew it. Could he be trusted to make due on his own, or would France insist on taking care of him- so much so that it became detrimental, for the rest of his life?

"...Certainly; this is _your_ house, after all," France said softly, the smile evident in his voice. England let out the breath he had unintentionally been holding. With a grin, he stood up. "After you, my _fiancé_ _._ "

England's mouth pursed in a tight line of embarrassment and France chuckled again before stepping out of the way to let the Brit pass. Due to this distraction, England's shoe caught on the edge of the couch and he nearly lost his footing, but he managed to right himself before the Frenchman had a chance to catch him. With a cough, he straightened out his shirt and allowed his Faerie companions to lead the rest of the way to the kitchen.

"As stubborn as always," France muttered, and England smirked.

"And you know that you love it, Frog," he called over his shoulder.

"I do- more than anything." France smiled, excited beyond belief to begin his life anew with his endearingly grumpy Brit by his side. As England entered the kitchen, he mumbled something so quietly that he thought that even the Faeries by his side would not be able to hear it. However, his assumption was wrong and France let out a light laugh, pleased that England had finally said the two words he had most wanted him to say for the past few centuries:

"I do."

* * *

 **French Translations:**

 _Bonjour, Angleterre=_ Hello, England

 _Ferme la bouche=_ Shut up

 _mon amour=_ my love

 _Je t'aime=_ I love you


End file.
